20
As the eloquent Channing observes—
"In the best books the best men talk to us, give us their most precious thoughts, and pour their souls into ours. God be thanked for books! they are the voices of the distant and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual life of past ages."
Or in the quaint words of Richard de Bury—
"They are the masters who instruct you without rods, without anger, and without reward. If you approach them, they are not asleep; if you interrogate them, they do not hide themselves; if you are ignorant, they do not laugh at you."[1]
So much for the past, gazed on by the hindmost face of Janus.[2] Of the present, it behoves us to speak with diffidence and modesty. Voluntary immigration has, within the brief space of the third part of allotted human existence, drawn together the majority of our population to these shores, retaining still the fondest affection for the scenes and associations of our youthful days, but undepressed by the craving heart-sickness which weighs down the spirit and unnerves the energy of the exile.
We are assembled in a country rich in all to encourage and reward industry—all that can make life useful and respected—all that, under the direction of a wise and just Providence, can render man grateful, obedient, and contented—a country
"Where nature pours her bounties forth
"With such a full and unwithdrawing hand"[3]
- ↑ Vide Appendix (a).
- ↑ Vide Appendix (b).
- ↑ Comus.
